Canadian Mid-Winter Gift

So how does one keep at bay the horrible monster that is ‘Winter Depression?’

I mean let us be plain. Winter in Ontario during the months of January and February are tough months to endure. It seems that during these months life becomes monochromatic: whites, blacks, gray in betweens, the occasional bit of brown mud blended into white, black or gray. And on those rare moments when the sun does come out and the sky is blue the reflected brightness off of the snow tends to blind. On top of that this is the time of year where people are generally tight with money, Christmas leaving behind its dirty credit waste. I do not know about you but something about the cold makes you hold onto your wallet a bit harder.

I’m currently swamped with readings, and papers that are looming. So I thought I would share something to help take the mind off of the horrid weather outside. Enjoy.

A short story that I found in The Antigonish Review 154: (Fiction) Transit by Laura Rock. I found the story to be both engaging and vulgar.

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From the online magazine GEIST, a magazine of ideas and culture made in Canada with a strong literary focus and a sense of humour.

Some fun Limericks Enjoy.

Shopping in Kits

Well, I thought I’d go shopping in Kits
For some comfy wintery mitts
I looked far and wide
Around from side to side
But I found only Lulu chicks

—Robin Ryan

A Kerrisdale Party

At a party I had to attend
“To Kerrisdale I’ve moved,” said my friend.
I asked her why, (and)
she said with a sigh,
“No hipsters with which to contend.”

—Mary Leighton

A Boy From Vancouver

There once was a boy from Vancouver
He thought himself quite the schmoozer
With hair slicked with oil
He’d visit the Royal
Where all he would do is hunt cougars

—Matthew Gruman

A Swell Garden on Mayne

There was a swell garden on Mayne
That was matured in sunshine and rain
But some deer on the roam
Jumped the fence round my home
Hard to garden and still remain sane

—Libbie

A Boy Named Noam

There once was a boy named Noam
Who went to jail for a poem
He loved it so true
Stuck to him like glue
And instead it really hut no one.

—Noam (4 years old)

A Young Woman From Bowen

There was a young woman from Bowen
Who decided to write a Zen Koan
She tried and she tried
Till she damn nearly died
And ended up writing a poem

—Kami Kane Tsuka

A Boat Held Fast in Garnish

His boat was held fast in Garnish
He turned and it sunk with a flourish
No one saw it sink
But he downed his drink
Because it wasn’t his to begin with

—Travis Dudfield

A Desperate Nun From Plum Coulee

A desperate nun from Plum Coulee
Was sure that her habit was “drooly”
When asked where she ate,
She replied “It was late,
And the waiter—well, he was ghouly!”

—D. Burger

A Man From Vancouver

There was a man from Vancouver,
. . . was trying to turn a new leaf over.
He tripped and he fell
thought he’d gone straight to hell
“Oh damn, this life’s like a hoover.”

—Siobhán Humston

A Dog Chased a Cat

A dog chased a cat a lot,
Until the day that he was caught,
He was collared,
And he hollered,
But the cat wished he was shot!

—Corey

A Girl From Calgary

There once was a girl from Calgary
Whose armpits were very hairy
It made men afraid
The hair she did braid
And got married in Glengarry

Death depicted as immanent
by the roadside, on the kitchen counter
or under the stars
and in thirty-seven elegies
that rail politely against
Joan, Dave, Shelley, parents
vanishing: fervent stacks of my words

that strike me now no different than
when a love I possess
is ended by someone else
and I brood over the syllables
of her name, the plan we had devised
to camp next summer from Rainy River
to the Gulf. I start to craft letters
to the withdrawn, hours of
details on why this abandonment
should not be happening, paragraph
after paragraph
of who did what after who said
they meant onlywouldn’t it make more sense if
—seven or nine sheets
of single space
carefully folded and stampedI could expect to hear back in only

Not a single cluster
of these words ever changed
a mind, restored or
brought relief,
let alone joy.

Were they addressed
wrongly? Maybe death
is not responsible for this
pain, for my fear of
the abiding certainty
of a black void.
Perhaps the letters should have been sent

elsewhere: life, who came on
so sweetly, is the one who chose
not to pursue its connection with
me, but instead
return to its longtime marriage,
partnership withWhat do I lack
as my letters beg to knowthat a creepy, unsatisfying
—you said so yourself—
is preferable to I know I have my
faults, but

Maybe despite
my many words, death is unaware
or at worst turns a blind eye
to the adulterous tease
it remains pledged to,
couples with I flinchwhenever the phone How could lifeI thought you told me initially be so
loving, warm yet in the end